A Nose That Can See
by Colubrina
Summary: Hermione Granger has found herself inexplicably tossed back into time to Tom Riddle's Hogwarts. And he's a Veela and, wouldn't you know it, she's his mate. Could life get worse? But he seems to have an endless supply of out-of-season fruit so it can't be all bad, right? Tomione. Major character death, musical theater, and all that fruit. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**~ A Nose That Can See ~**

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_A/N – This is a very silly little story. I do feel, however, I have truly captured the genuine character of Tom Riddle and that he is not the slightest bit out of character._

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** A nose that can see is worth two that sniff. ~ Eugene Ionesco**

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Getting thrown back in time wasn't actually the worst part.

The bit about having somehow gotten younger was pretty dreadful but even that wasn't the worst part.

No, the very worst part was so bad she'd decided to never get out of bed again and just let herself starve to death.

When Hermione first found herself trapped in the past, trapped in Tom Riddle's Hogwarts, she'd been sure nothing could possibly get worse than having to relive her adolescence in the company of a complete sociopath who was, she knew, destined to make the lives of everyone she loved miserable. He was even wearing the ring, one Horcrux made, so he was already basically immortal.

She assumed the diary was around somewhere.

Crazy bastard.

But, no, she could have lived with all of that. Could have just put her head down and plugged along. It was a little creepy, to be honest, how cheerfully and easily Albus Dumbledore had absorbed her into the school. Oh, you came from the future and you're marooned here in the past? Well, it's a strange school, strange things happen. There's a Muggle orphanage one of our boys goes to in the summer; I'll see there's a room for you there.

That part had been, she admitted, a little unsettling. I'll be living with Tom Riddle over the summers, she thought. Great. Me and Lord Voldemort, hanging out over coffee. Swell.

But none of that was what had made her decide to just never get up again.

Nope.

The final straw was that Tom Riddle, future Dark Lord, sociopathic murderer, was a Veela.

And she was his mate.

Some things were simply not to be borne so she crawled into bed, curled up, and tried to remember how long it took the average person to starve to death.

And it would have worked, too, if he hadn't shown up in her dorm with fresh strawberries.

"How did you get in here?" she demanded from under the covers as the evil maniac sat on the edge of her bed. "There are wards and charms and –"

"Don't be insulting," Tom Riddle said dismissively. "I can get anywhere I want."

She made a disgruntled noise but didn't come out.

"I can't let you starve yourself to death," he continued in a light conversational tone. "While I assure you I also find our mutual problem quite unpleasant, I've already researched what would happen if I killed you and I didn't make a horcrux or two just to allow myself to wither away and die because of some absurd magical bond thing. You're simply going to have to stay alive."

"Am I supposed to be reassured you researched what would happen if you killed me?"

"I have strawberries," he said, ignoring her question. "If these aren't tempting enough I can come back with some that have been covered in chocolate."

Hermione poked her nose out from under the blankets. "You are an evil wizard," she said.

"I am an evil wizard with strawberries," he corrected her.

"And you despise Muggle-borns," she said, looking somewhat longingly at the bowl of fruit in his hands. She was really very hungry. Perhaps she wasn't cut out for starving herself to death.

"I find I can make an exception when my life depends on it," he said. "Plus, pheromones."

Hermione shuddered.

"Does it not work both ways?" he asked, a ruthless scientific curiosity she found abominably appealing surfacing. "Because you smell like the best sex ever to me."

The appeal disappeared.

The evil wizard who – damn him – did smell wonderful, held a strawberry out towards her. "I know you want it," he said. "I know everything you feel and it's quite unpleasant. Feelings, in general, are unpleasant. How do people manage to get through their days when they respond to everything around them with all these messy emotions?"

"That, at least, doesn't work both ways," she muttered as she gave up and snatched the strawberry out of his hand.

"So the smell thing does?" Tom Riddle asked and she disappeared back under the covers, reaching her hand out for another strawberry. He sat there, handing her strawberries one at a time, until the bowl was empty.

"Come to dinner," he ordered and she muttered something incomprehensible and Riddle snorted. "I can keep bringing you food but, if I do that, sooner or later your Housemates will assume we're having wild sex multiple times a day and, if you'd prefer to avoid that, you'll come to meals." He paused. "Of course, we could just have the wild sex," he suggested. "I wouldn't mind. It seems like the one upside of this ridiculous and embarrassing connection."

"I hope you molt," she muttered.

. . . . . . . . . . .

That fucking girl was feeling things _again_. Tom Riddle had just about had it with having to feel things. Feelings were quite possibly the worst thing ever. And the things she got all feely about. She felt sorry for house elves. She found her own Housemates tiresome.

Well, he had to agree with her there. Gryffindors were tiresome.

She felt _rage_ when she found a book had been dog-eared.

He kind of liked the rage and wondered if he could find some way of dog-earing books and then fucking her senseless while she spewed forth invective about the way people who abused books should be tortured.

It was unfortunate he was fairly sure she'd be upset if he _actually_ tortured people for hurting books. This one was one of the things that made feelings so confusing; why want to torture people and then not do it? Or have him do it for her if she didn't want to get blood on her clothes?

At least she didn't like Quidditch. That would have been unbearable.

At first, he'd just planned on killing her. Being a Veela was clearly unacceptable and the obvious solution had been to get rid of her.

Bummer that would have killed him too.

And she did smell _wonderful_. He wanted to rub up against her and smell her hair and fuck her until he was so tired he couldn't move anymore and he really wished she'd stop feeling things because it was so damn distracting. He'd been calmly planning how to main and slaughter the lesser orders over breakfast when he felt a flash of utter longing and he'd slammed his quill down and stormed over to her at the Gryffindor table.

"What do you want _now_?" he'd snapped at her, inhaling as deeply as he could without obviously embarrassing himself. "You are interrupting my work."

"Go _away,_" Hermione hissed but he'd already glared at the girl she'd been sitting next to with enough ferocity she flounced off muttering about stuck up Slytherins.

He made a mental note to kill her.

"I've decided we should date and whenever you really want something you should tell me and I'll get it for you to avoid this miserable thing where you feel at me," he said.

"I want to go _home_," his bushy-haired and perpetually annoying mate muttered.

"Oh." He contemplated her. "Well, I can't help you there. Perhaps sex would distract you?"

Well, at least her fury was a more pleasant feeling than the helpless longing. He could work with that going on in the background.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Does it ever occur to you that your 'I hate all the Muggles' thing is just a bit of an overreaction to your issues with your father?" Hermione asked, yanking her novel back from Tom.

She wasn't sure when she'd started thinking of him as 'Tom' but, really, it was hard to think of a megalomaniac killer as 'Riddle'. It was as if he were trying to be a scary clown or something and, once she'd had that thought, she couldn't think of him as 'Riddle' without giggling.

So 'Tom' it was.

"My filthy Muggle father," he snarled, a vicious snarl made far less intimidating by the way he was nearly twitching as he repressed his urge to pet her hair.

"Oh, I agree he seems to have been a bit of a bastard," Hermione agreed, patting him on the hand. "But can you blame him? Realizing he'd been drugged by your mother can't have been all that pleasant. Still, I think to go from 'my father figure was inadequate' to 'so I should kill everyone in his ethnic group' is a bit of a leap. Maybe you should explore those daddy issues a little."

"I do not have daddy issues," Tom snapped.

"If you say so," Hermione agreed pleasantly, looking back at her book. She let a few beats pass before she added, "Still, the urge to kill your father off is pretty Freudian, wouldn't you say?"

"My father is already dead." Tom was starting to sound frustrated.

"And thus you've decided to kill lots of substitutes," Hermione said with a nod. "Do you want to marry your mother too?"

Tom slammed his hand down on the ground right next to her hand but she didn't even flinch. "I plan to marry you," he snapped, "and you are nothing like my mother."

"You need to work on your proposal technique," Hermione said. "Why should I marry you?"

"Because I'll keep you in a cage as a pet if you don't," he suggested and she rolled her eyes.

"Do that and I'll feel all sorts of things at you." She concentrated on feeling how much she loved kittens and unicorns and fluffy stuffed animals.

He shuddered.

She patted him on the hand again. "Try to keep up, Tom. You can't hurt me but I can make you squirm just by not being a sociopath."

"I hate you," he muttered.

"Yes, but you hate everyone," she said. "That's hardly a good way to make a girl feel special. You really need to work on that proposal technique, sweetie."

. . . . . . . . .

"We need to talk about the future," Tom said.

"Mmm. I think this is the bit where I wring my hands and tell you I can't possibly reveal what is to come and that that would muck up the time line or something," Hermione said. "Do you have any more of those cherries?" she added. "I don't know how you get all this out of season fruit but I could be brought around to the dark side for fresh peaches."

"I'll make a note," he said. "Does this mean you decline to reveal my future?"

"I think you're supposed to threaten me here," she said.

"As you keep pointing out," Tom said with a sigh, "I can't threaten you effectively. Would bribery work?"

"You could try just asking questions," Hermione said. He gaped at her. "Well," she said, "We both know you're an incessant nag and manipulative and sneaky and quite thoroughly underhanded. Eventually you'd get the answers you want so it seems like a waste of energy to refuse to chat. Plus, of course, the future is pretty lousy and I'm not all that sure maintaining the time line should really be a priority for me."

"Is it really going to be this easy?" Tom didn't seem to quite believe it.

"Well, I am rather stuck with you and when I make you too sad you have this annoying habit of shedding. I found feathers in my bed, Tom. _Feathers."_

"You wouldn't let me kiss you," he muttered.

"You'd been _smoking_." Hermione said with a shudder. "So disgusting. It's like licking an ash tray."

"I'll quit," he offered and she looked smug. "So… tell me about the future," he prompted.

Her smug look didn't go away.

"You try to kill a baby and muck it up, become incorporeal, ride around on someone's head for a while, and then are eventually reborn out of a cauldron as an actual lunatic with no nose."

He blinked at her a few times.

"No nose?" he asked, reaching a hand up to touch his face.

"You're more bothered by the fact that you become hideously unattractive than that you lose your mind?"

"Hideous?" he asked in horror.

"You begin to see why I have a vested interest in changing the future," Hermione said. "If I must have this weird bond to a brilliant sociopath who periodically sprouts feathers, I would prefer him to be an attractive, brilliant sociopath. Also, maybe you could can it with the killing babies bit."

"I don't like babies," he said, hand still on his nose.

"That doesn't mean you have to kill them."

"Like you've never wanted to murder a baby."

Hermione recalled the time she'd been forced to babysit two cousins and muttered, "Toddlers are worse."

. . . . . . . . . .

"You really need to have sex with me," Tom Riddle whined again. "Sex with anyone else is going to be unpleasant."

"How do you know that?" Hermione asked as he cut another slice of fresh peach and handed it to her.

"I experimented," he said. "It was unpleasant."

"You cheated on me?" she demanded in apparent outrage and Tom narrowed his eyes.

"You do realize I know you're more amused than upset, right?"

She shrugged and held her hand out for another piece of peach. "The downside of our creepy emotional bond; I can't ever lie to you. Not that I'd bother."

He handed her a slice of fruit.

"I'm still curious why you thought to even try. Not to be mean, Tom, but you're pretty obsessed with your quest for world domination; that doesn't leave a lot of time for romance."

"The book said it would be unpleasant and I wanted to check," he said. "It was scientific curiosity."

"The book?" she asked.

"_Our Bodies, Our Veelas_," he said.

"Is that a joke?" she asked.

He looked offended.

. . . . . . . . . .

Tom Riddle watched his girlfriend look through his Big Book of World Domination and waited for her response.

"I'm just a little unclear on what the endgame is," she said at last.

"World Domination," he said. "Hello? Look at the title page."

"Well, do you really want to run everything, be immortal, or just torture Muggles to death to work out your daddy issues?" she asked, setting the book aside.

"I do not have daddy issues," he insisted.

"Oh, please. Leaving aside your obvious and rampant daddy issues, if you want to be immortal, your plan is shite, and if you want to have power, your plan is shite. If you want to be a ravening lunatic who tortures Muggles, well, I'd say you've got a pretty good handle on what you'll need to do to achieve that."

"I hate you," he muttered.

"Well, let me know if you want feedback on a better 'be immortal' or 'be in charge of everything' plan."

"Why did I get cursed with a swotty, know-it-all mate?" he demanded.

She narrowed her eyes at him and began to think about puppies gamboling in fields of flowers until he muttered, "Fine, I'm sorry. All your fucking cute is going to give me a migraine."

"That's my good little sociopath," she said.

. . . . . . . . . .

"If you don't start sleeping with me I'm going to keep molting," Tom snapped as small, downy feathers drifted from his head down to the ground. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to inspire fear in minions when you are shedding feathers?"

"Maybe you could work on new motivational techniques?"

"Hermione," he begged, "you don't have to actually have sex with me, though I'd really _really_ like it if you would. You just have to be around me more. I physically need you. I'll die without you."

"No you won't," Hermione closed her eyes and stretched back out on her bed. Her roommates had done that thing where they looked at Tom in terror and fled as soon as he arrived and she was enjoying the break from their incessant chatter about hair styles and boys. "You need to research more closely," she continued. "Not being around me will make you sad. I'm pretty sure I can live with making Tom Riddle sad."

"I'm begging you," he said and when she didn't even open her eyes he tried again. "I'll kill your roommates if you don't."

That made her open her eyes. "Oh, Tom," she said with a sigh. "Is that really the best you can do for threats? No wonder your minions aren't operating at peak fear efficiency."

"If you don't sleep with me the out-of-season fruit stops," he threatened.

She sat up in alarm. "But that's the only good thing in my days," she protested. "I've already done all the coursework and, frankly, standards are a little more rigorous in the future. I'm bored and tormenting you with images of unicorns prancing about is only entertaining for so long – "

"Thank Merlin," he muttered.

"You have to keep that fruit coming," she said.

He smirked at her.

"You'll kick your roommates out," she ordered. "If I move in, they sleep someplace else."

"Done," he agreed.

"I hate you," she muttered.

"I know," he said, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead. She tried not to be too obvious about how she inhaled his scent. "But you'll end up fucking me anyway."

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N - More to come. In the meanwhile, indulge me with your amusing thoughts.**_


	2. Chapter 2

"I don't understand why we have to clear out of our room just so you can sleep with that Mudblood," Abraxas whined. "I'd understand it if you were fucking her. I mean, it'd be gross, but I guess everyone's got a fetish."

He turned to glower at Antonin who made a face and looked up at the ceiling.

"Don't call her that ever again," Tom said, his voice the kind of idle, uninflected tone most people used to comment on uninteresting weather. "If you do, I'll hang you from the Common Room ceiling and find out how long a person can last during live vivisection."

"Always so dramatic," Abraxas muttered.

"I really wish you'd stop harping on the clown thing," Antonin said. "It was just the one time and you have brought it up incessantly."

"He, I don't judge," Abraxas said. "You like your women dressed up like circus clowns. That's great. At least it's a creative fetish. Most people like shoes or feet or something."

"At least I don't go around the dorm singing songs from West End musicals," Antonin snapped "One more rendition of 'Tea for Two' and I might kill you in your sleep."

"You don't appreciate great art," Abraxas said with a sniff.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Tom Riddle really _really_ wanted to have sex with Hermione Granger. It wasn't just the way she smelled, though he found himself fascinated by how powerful pheromones were. He was just drawn to her as if they were bees or something.

He had added an entire page to his Big Book of World Domination in order to brainstorm ideas on controlling the masses via smell. It seemed a bit out there, but, hey, he'd already turned his diary into a self-aware soul storage unit. He was pretty comfortable with 'out there' ideas.

Plus, the molting; that was pretty 'out there'. Where did the feathers even come from?

Still, sex.

He wanted to have it.

And not just because of the pheromones.

He was a budding Dark Lord with a knack for anagrams but he was also a horny teenaged boy and he's just convinced the woman – girl? woman? – to sleep in his bed every night. Really, it was just a matter of time. Very frustrating time.

Time. Time was the root of this whole problem. If the stupid girl – woman? – hadn't traveled back in time he never would have found out he was a Veela and was stuck with her forever. And feathers. He was stuck with the feathers.

Once he'd even found a pink one. What the _hell?_

At least she'd been laying off the unicorn crap lately.

He'd torn several pages out of books and left them in her bag and her rage had turned him on and bolstered his mood all through Potions as he sucked up to that idiot sycophant Slughorn, though the resulting erection had been a trifle awkward when class was over. He was tired of wanking in the shower and thinking about how fucking amazing the stupid woman smelled and he knew that she had the same response to him and it just wasn't fair.

Why wouldn't she just fuck him?

Tom Riddle sat on his bed and sulked and waited for his girlfriend to get back from whatever it was she was doing that had her so damn pleased with herself.

. . . . . . . . . .

"The name thing is stupid," Hermione said as Tom handed her another blackberry. "There's nothing wrong with the name 'Tom'." She paused. "Though I can kind of see your point about the 'Riddle' bit,' especially given Antonin's thing with the clowns."

"I beg your pardon," he asked, not pursuing how she knew about Antonin. Some things even an evil Dark Lord didn't want to know about.

"Voldemort. It's a dumb name, even if the anagram is kind of clever and your ongoing thematic obsession with death nicely worked in."

"Lord Voldemort is not a stupid name," he muttered.

"Is," she disagreed and took another blackberry. "But wizards tend to go for stupid names so I suppose you feel like you fit it better with it, though why you can't just use your middle name I have no idea. Lord Marvolo has a bit of a nice ring."

"Lord Marvolo and Lady Hermione," he said with a smirk before adding, sulkily, "and I'm not trying to just fit in."

"Really? Mulciber. Abraxas. Thoros. Your friends all have dumb names. Stands to reason you'd want a dumb name too." She patted him on the hand in the condescending way she knew he hated. "It's okay to want to be like your friends, Tommy."

"I could kill you," he said under his breath.

"Can't, actually," she said.

"I'm special," he muttered, "I should have a name that's not ordinary."

She took another blackberry. "That's right. You're my special little scary snowflake."

. . . . . . . . . .

"Tommy." Hermione was hanging upside down over the edge his bed – their bed, really – and working on casting a wandless, silent muffliato to drown out Abraxas.

"What?" he snapped. He'd been making minor edits in his Big Book of World Domination and he hated to be interrupted when he did that. It made him petulant.

"I've been thinking about your quest for immortality," she said. "I don't think you should make any more horcruxes. It's not efficient."

"This isn't an automobile factory," Tom said. "Efficiency is not my main goal." He waited for her to go on and when she didn't, just lay there, draped upside down and starting at him and feeling annoyed, he finally closed up his Big Book and turned around. "So what do you, swotty future girl, think I should do?"

"I think you should kill Nicholas Flamel and take the Philosopher's Stone," she said. "Elixer of Life and all that."

Tom sighed. "You say that as if I hadn't already considered it, but what if someone steals the Stone? I don't like being dependent on some fantastical object."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione said. "You've already got two horcruxes as backups and your obsession with making them be important and special objects means they're already easy to find and destroy. If you really objected to being dependent on fantastical objects, as you put it, you'd have made a grain of sand into a horcrux, tossed it on the beach, and known no one would ever find it. But, no, you have to be special and different.

"It's really your main weakness," she said. "Well, that and the daddy issues."

"I do not have daddy issues."

"Also," Hermione said, "how do you plan to handle having me die of old age? I'm kind of a built in expiration date for your mad immortality plans unless you keep me alive too."

"Fuck," Tom Riddle muttered. "You're right."

"I usually am," she said. "Also, I want an engagement ring."

He raised his eyebrows and looked at her, tasted her feelings. She was totally, completely, unequivocally, sincere.

"Well, we are stuck together and social mores do dictate that means marriage," she said with a shrug. "Plus, I'm getting tired of the feathers and keeping you happy keeps that under control. Last time we kissed I got one in my mouth; how can that even happen?"

"Will we have sex if we're married?" Tom asked.

"Make me immortal and get me a ring and then we'll talk," she said.

He smirked. Nicholas Flamel was as good as dead.

. . . . . . . . . .

"You know," Tom said as he worked a brush through Hermione's hair with immense care, "snakes are not as interesting to talk to as you might think."

She laughed and he sighed. She never took his problems seriously.

"How dull are they?" she asked, mustering interest. "I never asked Harry; he was just too freaked out that you and he had the same creepy language skill to be willing to talk about it in any depth."

"Who's Harry?" Tom asked, his hand stilling. He didn't like her to talk to other boys. Antonin was acceptable, what with the way he only liked clowns and Tom was quite sure Hermione would die laughing before she'd put on floppy shoes, and Abraxas could barely manage to pretend to be interested in the stunning girl he was being forced to marry after graduation. But who was this 'Harry'?

"The baby you aren't going to kill as a favor to me," she said. "In the future. Keep brushing."

"I don't see why I should do you any favors," he muttered.

"I know," she said. "But you will anyway."

He sighed. "So this 'Harry' could talk to snakes too," he asked.

"That is what I said. I wish you could keep up with me, Tom. Having a slow Veela is a bit like having a simple dog. It seems sweet enough but – "

He groaned and spun her around and kissed her to shut her up. Some days it was the only thing that worked. She nearly purred against him as she opened her lips and Tom considered the great mercy that she came from a time period with significantly looser morals. Imagine if she'd traveled to him from the past and wouldn't even let him be alone with her.

"Snakes," he finally whispered against her skin, "are very limited thinkers. They care about food and warmth and killing things and sex and nothing else. They are very _very_ boring to talk to."

Hermione pushed him over onto his back and, laying down at his side, thought very lewd things at him. He shut his eyes and sighed. "You're just teasing me again," he said. "You have no intention of letting me fuck you. You are a really evil bitch, you know that?"

"Tell me more about snakes," she invited him as she reached a hand down into his trousers. "You keep talking and I'll keep amusing myself at your expense."

There were, Tom Riddle considered as he began to discuss serpentine conversational failings, worse things than a girlfriend who could think dirty thoughts at you. She didn't even slip in one unicorn or puppy until after he'd come in her hand.

"Bitch," he muttered at the image of frolicking unicorn foals.

"But I'm your bitch," she said.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione looked over the ring Tom handed her, turning it back and forth and holding it up to her eye.

"For fuck's sake," he snapped. "I washed the blood off before I gave it to you."

"Oh, well, I'm glad there are standards," she said. "For the record 'I already washed the blood off' is not the most romantic ring presentation ever."

"You would have preferred I didn't?"

"Sometimes," Hermione said, "talking to you makes me want to bang my head into a wall." She handed him the ring back. "Go research how to propose and come back when you've got a good one worked out. Ask Abraxas or something; one of those musicals he's always singing should have an idea you can steal. Also, I'm out of blackberries."

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione had very strong feelings about pedagogy. Normally Tom hated it when she went about projecting her damn emotions all over the place but he made two exceptions.

One was the way she felt when he played with her body; the taste of her emotions as he buried fingers inside her and worked her with his thumb was particularly nice. He'd actually made her beg once doing that and considered pulling repeat pleas out of her mouth a life goal on par with taking over the Ministry and staffing it with his own, clownish minions.

The way she contemplated lurid forms of murder when she sat in classes with teachers she didn't approve of was just as nice.

She had a remarkably vivid imagination and he began to appreciate her more and more. During History of Magic he didn't even try to take notes, just leaned back and let her murderous frustration wash over him.

When she contemplated letting animals gnaw Professor Binns to death while the man remained fully conscious – something very few students in the class were – Tom realized he had been quite mistaken about his own emotional failings.

He _could_ feel love.

Fascinating.

. . . . . . . . . .

"So," Headmaster Dippet regarded the girl who'd shown up from the future with a twinkle in his eye; eye twinkles were handed out as soon as one became Headmaster. "Though you assure me this is technically your sixth year I do think you should write your O.W.L. exams with the fifth year students."

"Technically this is more like my eighth year." Hermione stopped to consider whether the year she'd spent doing inept covert operations for a war counted as a year of school. "Maybe seventh," she amended.

"I have had some difficulty in getting your records forwarded – or backwarded – from the future," Dippet said.

Hermione squinted at him.

"You will need your exam records to get a job," Dippet said, starting to speak slowly as though he wasn't quite sure the girl in front of him was following along.

She shrugged and concealed her furious thoughts. She didn't like being spoken down to. "Fine. I'll write the exams."

In the Slytherin common room Tom Riddle tipped his head back and gave a groan of pure delight. Abraxas looked at him in confusion but Thoros Nott rolled his eyes and explained. "Somewhere, Hermione is pissed off about something. If that woman ever breaks down and hits someone who annoys her, Tom might come on the spot."

"Do you think we could set that up?" Tom sat up. "Or stabbing. I'd love to feel her stab someone." His fingers began to twist into excited claws and he swore under his breath and tried to calm down.

"Being a Veela is fucking weird," Abraxas observed. "I mean, bird claws? Really? Next thing I know you'll be eating suet or something."

Back in the Headmaster's office Dippet was still talking, oblivious to Hermione's mood. "And you have a room to stay this last summer in the same orphanage as Tom Riddle. I do think you know him? Dumbledore told me that he set that up when you first popped up from the future."

"Tom and I are somewhat acquainted, yes," Hermione said. "I'm sure he'll help get me settled this summer."

. . . . . . . . . .

Tom was nibbling on her neck when she told him she should consider studying for her O.W.L. exams. He pulled away and looked at her, waiting for the punch line.

"Is this some kind of a threat to get more peaches?" he asked at last when no joke was forthcoming.

She twisted the engagement ring on her finger with a petulant frown. "Dippet seems to feel I should sit them so I can get a job."

Tom Riddle snorted. "You don't need a job. We're going to take over the world as immortal dictators. Hello? Have you not been paying attention? I'm a crazed megalomaniac and you're my creepy magical bird mate. And fiancé. We're stuck with each other and I'm not going to stop being interested in power just because you smell nice."

"Your plan to acquire power is still shite," Hermione told him. "Why have you stopped kissing me?"

"You told me you needed to study," Tom informed her. "I could use that time to revise my 'shite' plan."

Hermione laughed and pulled his mouth back to hers. After a few moments she said, "I did already sit them once, and then studied another year, and then did a year of practical field work while I tried to figure out how to kill you. I suppose I'll be fine without a review."

"I must say, I'm a bit put out your practicum was all about killing me. That seems like a bit of a bad quality in girlfriend."

"Fiancé. You got down on one knee and recited poetry and everything. Though, I still think, 'On Another's Sorrow' by William Blake was a weird choice."

"It's about sharing feelings," he muttered.

"Whatever." Hermione pulled her shirt off and Tom bit his lip and began to reach around to undo the clasp of her bra. "And I thought my history of wanting to kill you was part of our special bond."

"Do you still want to kill me?" he asked, lowering his mouth to one nipple and tugging on it, ever so carefully, with his teeth, before flicking his tongue back and forth across the hardening flesh.

"Sometimes," she gasped.

"Still hate me?" he asked.

"Sometimes," she admitted.

"Going to fuck me anyway?"

"Eventually."

"I can live with that." Tom returned his full attention to the way her smell changed when she was aroused. Pheromones really were wonderful.

. . . . . . . . . .

Sitting exams becomes much less stressful when not only have you taken them once before but you also have a backup plan to become queen of the world with your sociopathic mate at your side if gainful employment doesn't work out.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione hefted her bag over her shoulder and looked at the grim orphanage. "You have to be kidding me," she said to Tom.

"Home, sweet home," he said.

The matron came out and looked at them, her hands on her ample hips, a dirty apron tied over a poorly fitted dress. "Well. You came back," she said, sounding disappointed.

"Mrs. Cole," Tom said politely. "I believe the school wrote to you about Miss Granger."

The woman fastened her beady eyes on Hermione and sniffed. "I won't have any hanky panky, missy," she said.

"Well," Hermione said, "you certainly won't remember any, no."

. . . . . . . . . .

_A/N - Thank you for all the feedback. I'm so glad everyone appreciates the utter solemnity of this story. I mean, I reference William Blake, always a sign of somber intent. _

_On the off change you might have not heard the song Abraxas Malfoy is annoying his friends by singing, I pinned it. www . pinterest colubrina/a-nose-that-can-see/_


	3. Chapter 3

As much as Tom liked Hermione's hands on his cock, that summer he came to appreciate her mouth more. Having her mouth on his cock not only felt much lovelier – though she did spit out a feather once and glare at him while he muttered a sullen apology – it also kept her from talking.

Once she'd made him listen to an entire lecture on situational ethics while jerking him off and, after that, he really appreciated anything that kept that from happening ever again.

Ever.

Like he cared about ethics.

"I'm the Dark Lord, Hermione," he'd said. "Murder. Mayhem. Immortality. Not endless discussions on love making things right."

Murder. Mayhem. Immortality. And blow jobs. It was so very good to be bad.

If he'd been really good to Hermione on any given day, she'd even think about how much she loathed Mrs. Cole and the myriad ways the orphanage matron could be made to die while she sucked him off. The time she'd imagined cutting the woman into small bits he'd come the moment he'd entered Hermione's mouth.

"Damn," Hermione had said.

"Don't say _anything_," he'd muttered and, for once, she'd listened.

"Am I still your special snowflake?" he'd muttered into the silence, embarrassed as she wiped her chin and she'd stood up and kissed his forehead. He'd cringed, waiting for thoughts of gamboling puppies or, worse, pity but instead she'd concentrated on feeling how much she hated the orphanage and everyone in it – except him – and he'd let her hatred soothe his wounded pride until he realized he was lying down in her lap and she was stroking his hair.

"I love you," he'd said. Her hand had stilled for a moment then gone back to petting him.

"It's just the pheromones," she'd said reassuringly. "You're still a sociopath."

. . . . . . . . .

Hermione hated the orphanage and she hated Mrs. Cole.

For one thing, the woman made her realize she actually had an emotional connection to Tom Riddle. She could have lived without knowing that.

At Hogwarts she'd never felt the need to defend the wretched boy because his endless stream of sycophants perpetually fawned on him. But here, here in this orphanage with this judgmental matron who didn't like Tom simply because he was an evil genius, well, here she started to defend him and that wasn't acceptable.

Realizing she cared that the matron condemned him made Hermione realize she cared about Tom.

She cared about Tom Riddle.

The very idea made her shudder. It was one thing to let his talented fingers get her off – and having a direct line to her feelings did give him a bit of an advantage in that department – it was another to actually care about the boy.

She blamed Mrs. Cole for that discovery and that blame fueled her hatred.

Also, Hermione was fairly sure the orphanage would not have been deemed acceptable in the era she'd grown up in and she saw no reason to lower her standards on what qualified as reasonable living conditions for children, namely herself. She hadn't approved of Harry's living under the stairs or behind bars and she didn't approve of this ten-cots-to-a-room 'we love you Mrs. Hannigan' bullshite either.

She also missed sleeping with Tom.

He was molting more because of the nights away from her and she spent most of her waking hours curled up against his side 'studying' together, walking with him, or sneaking into closets for trysts, justifying it to herself by saying it was to help him.

No need to dwell on how much she'd started to enjoy his company.

Mrs. Cole tried to tell her one day she had to help take care of the younger children and Hermione asked to see the books that documented how much the woman was being paid by the school to take her in and feed her and whether or not that fee had been adjusted to compensate for the labor the woman was trying to extract.

Mrs. Cole told her to mind her lip.

Then Hermione threatened to kill anyone left in her care. "I don't like children," Hermione said while Riddle had leaned against the wall and soaked in her rage like parched soil absorbing rain. "I'm not good with them. Any of them left with me aren't likely to fare well. Are you following me? I could use smaller words. Maybe."

Mrs. Cole stomped off threatening to write the school.

"Hermione," Tom Riddle said weakly from his place at the wall, "Do you think you could think about unicorns or something? I'm really…"

She looked at him, erection bulging in his trousers, and thought about unicorns and kittens and how adorable they were backlit by the sun in a field in the late afternoon. He sagged in relief as the telltale swelling receded.

"I'm losing my touch with the unicorns," Hermione said as she slipped into his embrace, enjoying the smell of him and the feel of him. Enjoying him.

She was probably going to go to hell for that.

On the other hand, immortality.

Well, you win some, you lose some.

"That's not helping," he said, as she pressed against him and let her mind dwell on how she was starting to be rather fond of him. To care about him. "If you're not going to let me fuck you, could you stop being so damn delicious?"

. . . . . . . . . .

"Where's my fruit?" she demanded.

"I can't get it here," Tom said with a pout.

"I don't see why I'm supposed to put up with a sociopathic Veela who thinks he owns me when there aren't any peaches in the bargain," Hermione said. "Pass the sugar."

Tom slid the sugar bowl across the table and Hermione started to giggle as she spooned it into the vile instant coffee Mrs. Cole kept in the kitchen.

"What?" he demanded.

"Just… I'm hanging out with Lord Voldemort over coffee," she gasped. "It's… swell."

"And people say I'm the crazy one," Tom muttered.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione knew Tom would get picked to be Head Boy. After all, she came from the future. It made her less than properly giddy when he got the badge in the mail and he sulked for three hours.

She made it up to him by reading a book about serial killers out loud in one of the common 'play' areas of the orphanage. He sat at her feet as she explicated the crimes of Jack the Ripper and watched the horrified faces of the other orphans with utter delight.

Hermione was not popular in the orphanage.

It wasn't that she had threatened to allow harm to come to anyone left in her care. It wasn't even that she was constantly in the presence of a boy of whom most of the other children were terrified.

It was that she berated them about schoolwork.

"You have no hope in this world to pull yourselves out of this miserable, stinking poverty except education," she'd lecture. "Do you want to end up like Mrs. Cole? A slovenly matron of unwanted children? No? Then stop playing ball and study your algebra and learn to write a decent hand."

"Do you plan to scold the offspring of my followers that way," he asked, lounging with his head on her lap in the park on one of the 'fresh air outings' Mrs. Cole had taken to insisting upon. She wouldn't allow Hermione and Tom to stay behind, knowing full well they'd likely engage in sordid sex acts she read about in the grimy romance novels she hid in the kitchen.

"Do you plan to make me live with these theoretical offspring?" she asked with a shudder.

Tom grinned up at her. "Maybe."

"Liar," she said. "You like children less than I do."

"Contraceptive charms are a beautiful thing," he said. "I don't suppose you'd consider doing anything that might require one anytime soon? I _did_ get you the ring."

Hermione stroked his dark hair and he nearly cooed with happiness at her touch. "Well," she said, "I understand as Head Boy you get your very own dormitory you only have to share with the Head Girl. A private room and everything."

"I do," Tom admitted.

"And, even for the stunningly poorly supervised co-ed boarding school we go to, that seems like an opportunity not to be missed."

"Mrs. Cole would not approve," Tom agreed.

"I assume you can handle the Head Girl problem?"

Tom smiled up at her, a wicked smile if ever there had been one. "I think I can manage to do that," he said.

"Then," Hermione said with a shrug, "we can have sex."

. . . . . . . . . .

"I feel bad I was not properly enthusiastic about your selection as Head Boy," Hermione said, wiping a trail of semen from her lips.

"Head being the theme of this broom closet encounter?" Tom asked as he leaned back against the wall and fumbled with his trousers.

"Mmm. Well, yes, though you owe me."

"It's hard to go down on you in a closet," Tom said. "We tried my kneeling and the angle was all wrong for you."

"True enough," Hermione admitted. "I'm keeping a tally for when we go back to school though. But that wasn't what I was talking about. I have a present for you; a bit of a congratulatory thing."

She stood up and handed him a vial filled with a silvery grey cloud of inchoate wispiness.

"What is it?" Tom asked.

"A memory," she said as she brushed dust off her knees. "I wish Mrs. Cole kept this closet cleaner. It's a bit of the future. You'll need a pensieve, I'm afraid – "

"Easy enough," he said with a shrug.

"- but I'm quite sure you'll enjoy it."

"This isn't you having sex with that Harry, is it?"

"Ewww." Hermione hit him and he licked his lips. "Harry was – is – my best friend. Like a brother. Just… don't be disgusting." She settled her skirt rather primly about her hips. "For your information, I'm a virgin." He made a scoffing noise. "Technically," she amended.

Despite the sound he made, Tom felt pleased. The Veela thing came with a surprising amount of possessiveness. He already had a tendency to like to hoard special things, rather like a crow, and he didn't care to share them at all. The way, however, he felt about the rest of his little shiny treasures – and, no, he didn't want to talk about why he liked the gum wrappers, he just did – was nothing compared to the way he felt about the wretched, wonderful girl who'd just sucked him off. She was absolutely his prize possession and he was quite sure he'd kill anyone who looked at her wrong.

If he could kill anyone who even looked at her that would be better but it was impractical to carry out, mainly because, when he'd suggested she spend her life in seclusion, she'd decided to do a 500-piece puzzle of Persian kittens sitting on a pink, satin pillow.

She wasn't good at puzzles.

By the end he was begging at her feet for her to stop with the cute kittens. She's made him kneel and apologize and promise never to suggest such a thing again. Then the fucking bitch had finished the puzzle anyway, contemplating the cuteness of the fluffy little cats with the flat faces the whole damn time.

He hated her.

She was so fucking evil.

He adored her.

For pretty much the same reason.

Now he hefted the memory she'd given him and looked at her. "Will I like it?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," she said. "I think you'll love it."

. . . . . . . . . .

"How did you do on your O.W.L.s, oh swotty one?" Tom asked as Hermione opened the envelope from Hogwarts.

She tossed the results over at him.

"You got an 'O' in Muggle Studies?" he said, making a face. "You don't even take Muggle Studies."

"I got _ten_ 'Outstandings'," she said, slightly irritated, "and you focus in on that one."

"It's kind of embarrassing given my political position on Muggles and Muggle-borns," he said. "Maybe we can not tell Abraxas and Mulciber about that one."

"I assume by 'political position' you mean 'incoherent plan to wipe them out'," Hermione said.

"Don't start with me," he muttered.

"Besides, were you really planning on bragging about my grades to your minions?" Hermione scoffed.

"I could tell them about your brain or your mouth, which do you prefer?"

"Bastard," she said.

"I'm afraid not," he said. "My daddy issues don't include that one."

. . . . . . . . .

When they returned to school, Hermione didn't even pretend she wasn't staying in Tom's room every night. She remained unsure whether Headmaster Dippet didn't know or didn't care the two of them had effectively been co-habiting since midway through the previous year and she had stopped worrying about it.

Tom really did smell amazing.

Sleeping with him was possibly the most wonderful thing in the world. She'd tried to keep that from him for a while but the way he was attuned to her emotions made that a doomed effort. He'd smirked at her the first time she'd woken up next to him, wallowing in pheromone-induced contentment. "I take it that the smell thing does work both ways," he'd said.

She'd scowled at him and he'd laughed at her.

Summer without him next to her in bed had been agonizing.

She never planned to put herself through that again.

He knew that too, of course, the bastard.

"How the power has shifted," he teased as she sprawled on his bed in the Head Boy room. "I think you might be as fond of me as I am of you."

She spun their engagement ring on her finger. "Arsehole," she said.

"But I have raspberries," he said, a teasing lilt in his voice and she opened her mouth and he popped one in. "And I do so like putting things in your mouth," he added.

Hermione muttered something around the fruit, then, after swallowing it, said, "Why don't you go look at your present, sweetheart. I'm sure there's a pensieve lying around somewhere."

He came back soon thereafter, wet spot on his trousers, a wild look in his eyes. "Who was that?" he demanded. "Who was that little clone of Abraxas' you punched?"

"His grandson," Hermione purred. "I take it you liked my memory?"

He bore down on her, claws curling from his hands, "You'd better think of something fluffy and pink if you don't want me right now."

Hermione licked her teeth and thought about how much she'd hated Mrs. Cole and Tom was on her almost instantly, He shoved her cute little schoolgirl skirt up and snarled at the way she wasn't wearing knickers. "You were waiting for me," he said, the words nearly a hiss. "You knew what that would do to me. You _bitch_," he said. "I fucking came in the goddamned common room."

"My turn, then," Hermione said, and, breathing hard, Tom Riddle looked at her. The realization she wasn't going to say no made him relax a little and the claws slowly faded away and he shoved a finger into her.

"You're dripping wet," he said.

"Pheromones," she said, arching her pelvis up towards him. "Creepy Veela connection. What turns you on, turns me on." She made a keening noise as he brushed roughly against her. "I knew the moment you dropped into that memory."

He backed away from her and yanked a book of her shelf. She watched him as he looked at her, then deliberately tore a page out and ripped it to shreds in front of her.

"You _bastard," _she hissed. She tried to think of fluffy animals but he laughed.

"Oh, no you don't," he said, "Not this time," and he ripped out another page.

She lost her concentration on the fluffiness of overweight cats at how furious she was at him that he was destroying her book.

"This feedback loop," she half-gasped, half-hissed, as his arousal from her anger hit her, "is going to break me."

"Good," Tom said, wrestling out of his trousers. "I think this would be a really good time to fuck. And I think this would be a good time to actually mark you as my mate; Salazar knows I've been burning to do it for ages. You get a ring, I get a scar. Where do you want it?"

"Hip," she snarled.

He lowered his mouth to her hip and licked at her skin. "Good choice," he said, his tone as mocking as he could make it, "that way only I can see it." He began to work her with his hand, bringing her higher and higher, guiding himself with the emotions radiating off her so strongly he couldn't believe the whole school hadn't stopped what they were doing to wank in unison, and, right as she peaked, he bit down as hard as he could and she howled.

"You _fucker_," she said as he pulled back. "That really fucking _hurt_."

"What did you think being bitten hard enough to leave a permanent scar would feel like?" he snapped, but the pain and hurt she was feeling as she struggled to choke back sobs was too much and he had her gathered into his arms and was actually cuddling her.

That kind of horrified him.

He just couldn't help himself.

His brain was screaming at him that she was hurt and that it was imperative that he kill whomever had done it and, well, he'd done it.

It was a tad confusing.

After she calmed down and the pain she was throwing at him had been reduced from crashing waves to tiny splashes lapping at the shore of the connection that had never gotten less peculiar, she said, "I hope you had a fucking sound barrier up or that stupid Head Girl is probably calling Dippet as we lie here."

"I did," he reassured her.

"And if you ever do that again, I will castrate you in your sleep," she added.

"You're mine now," he said, running his hand over the ring of tooth-marks that were already settling into being permanent, magical scar. "I'll kill anyone who touches you."

The Veela thing really was kind of creepy.

Didn't mean he wouldn't do it.

"Stalker much? I was already yours," she said, sounding aggrieved. "I've been yours since I showed up in this bloody time." She snuggled her head against his chest and Tom felt a kind of internal purring at the closeness; the marking ritual really had made him feel that much more possessive of her which, given he'd already contemplated the practicality of killing anyone who looked at her funny, was somewhat impressive. "You could have bloody well warned me your weird thing would hurt so damn much. I am absolutely not in the mood anymore." She sniffled. "No sex for you."

"You really thought it wouldn't hurt?" He snorted in derision. "Ten O.W.L.s and you couldn't put together being bitten would hurt."

She sulked at that and he sighed. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm being an arse."

"Get a pensieve," she said, still sounding put out. "Maybe the next time you watch me punch Draco we can enjoy the aftermath _without_ any disgusting Veela mating rituals to muck it up."

"Draco?"

"The mini-Abraxas."

"They name the kid _Draco_? The Malfoys are so pretentious with the naming crap. Who names a kid 'dragon'? Arseholes, that's who."

"So says Lord Voldemort."

He pulled her under the covers and held her, her naked bum pressed rather enticingly against him. He considered that he _had_ gotten his trousers off before he marked her and she _wasn't_ wearing knickers and there _were_ several more hours until dinner and concluded that this still had the potential to end well, if not quite as explosively as he'd hoped.

All he said was, "I'm considering following your advice and sticking with Lord Marvolo and Lady Hermione."

. . . . . . . . . .

A/N – I realize this is not quite as gasp out loud crack-y as the first two chapters. I think it may continue to get slowly darker what with Tom being a sociopath bent on world domination and Hermione mostly caring about fruit. Add in all the angry Tomione sex and the funny is a little thinner on the ground.

My beta, the amazing Shealone, tells me this chapter contains the most explicit line I've ever written. I think she's probably right. And I have a feeling it's just going to get dirtier from here.

Thank you to StarGirlPotter for the pensieve idea.


	4. Chapter 4

Tom had gotten rather used to the idea of a permanently bonded sex partner. Life partner. It helped that when he'd nervously mentioned children she'd thrown something at him and sworn if he ever got her pregnant she'd hex his balls off.

He hated children.

Well, he hated almost everyone but children were sticky and that made them even less acceptable than non-sticky people.

If you have to be a magically bound, immortal couple, it's good to agree on the question of whether or not to have children.

Not. Not was the right answer.

It also helped that he liked to collect things that were precious and his mate was most _definitely_ precious. Bitchy and manipulative and downright evil at times but _his._

_Hers_ too, though.

The first time he'd called her his, she'd gotten upset, and not the kind of pissed off that turned him on but a fear akin to that of an animal caught in a trap. He'd felt that horrifying urge to comfort her.

Dark Lords were not supposed to comfort distraught girlfriends.

If there had been a manual that would have been in it.

Still. Veela. It wasn't like he had a choice.

She'd narrowed her eyes at him, hiding her terror so well no one but him could have known. "You need to get over this idea I belong to you," was all she'd said.

"You do though," he'd said. "_My_ mate. Bonded. I _marked _you. Weird magical crap and it made you _mine. _You can't even touch another man anymore, can you? Feels like slime, doesn't it? Like you've shoved your hand into a vat of sewage when you even brush up against anyone other than me? Trust me, I know; it's the same for me. You're stuck with me. I'm stuck with you." He'd pulled her into arms and she'd been so upset she hadn't even stopped him. "Only bad part for me is you own me too. I can't bear for you to be even slightly displeased with me. At least when I'm pissed off at you, you don't have the screaming urge to drop everything to make it better."

"Fucking weird magical shit," was all she'd said. "I should have let myself starve to death. Too bloody late now, I guess, what with all the fruit you seem to have access to."

He knew she'd gotten used to it too, though. She slept with him, luxuriated in the smell of him, loved him.

Not that she'd say it. He was pretty sure she'd finally agree to rehearse a duet with Abraxas before she'd say that out loud.

Of course, he didn't need her to.

. . . . . . . . . .

Tom watched Hermione across the Great Hall. She was talking to some worthless Gryffindor – he made a note on his 'List of Trivial Things to Do' to find out who it was in case he needed to kill him – while being very careful not to touch him.

The slime feeling really was awful.

The way she casually moved away from the git to ensure he couldn't put a hand on her made Tom smirk as he stared at her. She was _his. _His bright, shiny toy from the future was _his_.

"I don't get why you like her so much," Primrose Parkinson said with a sniff.

He didn't even bother to look at the girl. "She's mine."

. . . . . . . . . .

Tom was walking in the hall with Hermione when Dumbledore stopped them to ask how their last summer at the orphanage had been.

Hermione answered politely enough so her flare of rage and loathing puzzled Tom.

She really, _really_ didn't like Dumbledore.

Compared to this, her feelings about Mrs. Cole were little more than mild dislike.

Fascinating.

When they got back to his room he tugged her onto their bed. "Why do you hate him?" he asked.

Hermione leaned back against him, her head on his lap as she stared up at the ceiling. "He's a vile, disgusting excuse for a human being," she said at last.

Tom shrugged. "So am I and that doesn't seem to bother you."

She didn't speak and Tom stroked her hair, letting each curl wind around a finger before undoing it and spinning another one. "He's your main opponent, you know," she said after a while. "In the future. He thinks you're evil, that you're not capable of love. That he is. That that makes him _special, _that that will justify everything he'll do to defeat you, even though he's just as ruthless, just as vicious."

"What does he do?" Tom asked quietly.

"You try to kill Harry, I told you that." Tom nodded. "You fail, but you kill his parents and Dumbledore just drops him off at an aunt's doorstep with a bloody note."

She was livid, Tom noted to himself, despite her calm voice.

"That house makes your little orphanage look like paradise. And he knew." She closed her eyes and Tom watched the moisture that leaked out from under her lashes. "He let my best friend grow up abused and alone in order to turn him into a weapon to kill you. Shaped him for seventeen years, sharpened him, then pointed him at you."

"Did it work?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "And then I fell into the past."

"Into the lap of the man who'd been the enemy you'd just defeated," Tom said, his hands still in her hair.

"Isn't life mysterious?" Hermione said bitterly.

Tom leaned down and kissed her forehead and she laughed, still bitter. "Keep the fruit coming, snowflake, and maybe I'll forget I'm Lord Voldemort's Mudblood pet."

"Mate," he said quietly.

"There's a difference?" she asked.

"Partner?"

She pulled herself up and looked at him. "Promise me you won't kill Harry. Not Harry. Not Ron. And no loopholes. No killing their parents and preventing conception, no sending minions to do it. They live. They live and they're safe."

"In a home worse than the orphanage?" Tom asked her, not wholly sure who 'Ron' was but figuring he had several decades to suss it out.

She stared at him, unblinking, and at last he nodded. "I promise."

She lay back down. "Partners," she agreed. "Of course, the more we change the future, the less valuable my knowledge will be."

"Can I kill Dumbledore?" he asked as the silence stretched out.

"I suggest poisoned candy," was all she said. "I suggest you do it soon before he gets too suspicious of you. Of us."

He kissed her then, tongue thrust into her mouth, a hand reached down under her skirt and into the waistband of her knickers, fingers twirling on her in a practiced rhythm that made her moan, then gasp, then call his name as shuddered against him. "Tom," she whimpered against his lips. "Tom."

_Mine_, he thought with vicious satisfaction. And all he had to do was not kill two people.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione sat down at the Slytherin table for the first time that night and Abraxas looked at her nervously. Tom wrapped arm around her with even more than his usual possessiveness and she smirked up at him as he produced a small box.

"Chocolate covered cherries," he said.

"You do know the way to my heart," she said.

"Through your chest wall," he said. "Obviously."

"Shouldn't you be sitting with them," Thoros Nott gestured towards the Gryffindor table.

Hermione shrugged and opened her mouth. Tom set a cherry inside and she nipped at his finger.

"Merlin, do you two have to engage in your fruit based foreplay at the damn table?" Mulciber complained. "I'm eating."

"They're tedious," Hermione said after she swallowed. "I can't take them anymore."

"She belongs with me," Tom said. "She's mine and I don't share."

"I thought you _were_ one of them," Abraxas said. "All red and gold and good and shite like that."

Hermione shrugged again as Tom dished up some food for her. "I was. But they natter on about courage and nobility and such as if they had even the faintest idea what any of those words really mean and I've had it. If I have to hear one more discussion about, say, slaying dragons, I may start cursing people." Her contempt was so obvious even Mulciber didn't miss it.

"You don't fetishize bravery?" he asked.

"I wouldn't throw the word 'fetish' around if I were you, clown boy," Hermione said. "And none of those idiots even know what bravery is."

"And you do?" Abraxas eyed her.

"I think I've met a lifetime quota of doing brave things," Hermione said. "Multiple lifetimes. I've learned a sensible person doesn't march up to a dragon with her sword out."

"What does a sensible person do," Tom asked, letting his fingers play with a curl at her neck.

She eyed him. "Obviously, a sensible person lets the idiot Gryffindor lure the beast out and then steals the hoard and is gone before the dragon returns."

"What happens to the Gryffindor?" Thoros asked while Tom and Abraxas laughed.

"Like I care anymore. Give me another cherry, you brat," she said to Tom who, obligingly, placed one in her mouth.

"How did you do all these brave things?" Mulciber asked.

"Mostly trying to kill this one," she said around the cherry, tipping her head towards Tom.

"Explain to me why you're so avidly panting after a witch who openly admits she's tried to kill you in the past. Future. Whatever." Mulciber demanded of Tom. "Can't you just go for one of the endless Greengrass or Parkinson girls? Primrose Parkinson is hot as hell and you can be reasonably sure she won't try to slit your throat in your sleep."

"I wouldn't actually trust Primrose," Thoros muttered. "She bites."

"This one doesn't bite," Tom said. "I bite."

Hermione gave him a very dirty look and he smirked at her. She didn't even bother thinking about puppies; thinking about sex until he could smell her arousal with his creepy Veela enhanced senses and began to shift on the bench was much more fun. A smile crept onto her face as Tom's minions began to grow more and more uncomfortable watching the silent battle between Tom and his girlfriend.

At last he mouthed, 'You win,' and it was her turn to smirk.

"Well, the cherries were great, sweetheart. Maybe some day I'll even let you pop mine," she said with horrid cheer as she stood up and made sure to position her pelvis as near to his face as she could while she fussed with her bag. "But right now I have to go to Runes." She nodded at the boys gaping at her. "Gentlemen."

"Bitch," Tom swore as she sauntered off, then grabbed his head while she flashed him one final thought of her quite literally undying love for good measure.

"You two are so fucking weird," Mulciber finally said into the silence.

. . . . . . . . . .

Tom ground out his cigarette and gestured for his lackeys to follow him with a sharp wave of his hand.

Thoros looked at the cigarette butt. "I thought you wanted to be immortal," he said. "Smoking can't be good for you."

Tom stopped to look at his minion. "I'm going to get the Philosopher's Stone," he said. "I'll be able to make the Elixir of Life. Do you really think a fag now and then is going to be a problem?"

"Fair point," Thoros admitted.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione and Tom sat in the Slytherin common room while Abraxas looked over some edits Hermione had made to Tom's Big Book of World Domination. Tom held a blackberry between his teeth and she leaned forward to take it from him and they rubbed noses. "You're just my little snowflake," Hermione said.

"Honestly," Thoros said, "must you two do that? It's putting me off my feed."

Tom looked over at the spinach salad Thoros was eating. Thoros had food issues and claimed he could eat nothing but raw food that had been planted during the full moon. He even had the Nott family house elves bring him food from home to accommodate this.

"You're eating what looks like weeds and carrot shavings," Tom observed. "It's like you're a rabbit or something. I don't think it would take much to put a person off that."

"Tom," Abraxas whined. "She doesn't like my design for the identifying tattoo."

"I have digestive issues," Thoros said sullenly. "And at least I'm not being all cute with my girlfriend. Some Dark Lord you are. 'Special snowflake'."

"It's a ridiculous design," Hermione said.

"When was the last time a girl sucked _you_ off?" Tom asked, balancing a blackberry on his nose and trying to toss it into Hermione's mouth who made a bit of a pro forma glare at him but didn't even bother to think about bunnies gamboling through fields or fluffy puppies. She just ate the blackberry.

They did, after all, help get the semen taste out of her mouth.

"What's ridiculous about it?" Abraxas demanded. He'd long since decided the best way to cope with Tom's constant references to sex was to ignore them. "It's snakes and skulls. Snakes are the Slytherin symbol and skulls represent death."

"After the Primrose incident I'm a little wary of letting a girl's teeth near my cock, okay," Thoros muttered, lifting another forkful of leaves to his mouth. "That woman is a menace."

"Well, Hermione isn't," Tom said smugly as the woman in question snagged the whole box of blackberries and went to lean over Abraxas' shoulder at the table being careful not to touch him. She'd written 'lame lame lame' next to his sketch of a potential Death Eater mark.

"It's so _obvious_," she said. "I mean, if you want to just say 'we're the bad guys' go ahead and use snakes and skulls. Hell, add in a spider for good measure. But maybe you could consider not screaming 'don't trust us' from the rooftops."

"So if I add a spider it will work?" Abraxas asked, pulling out a sketchbook.

Hermione looked at Tom who was trying not to laugh. "I'm so grateful I'm your mate, snowflake boy, and not his. You might be an evil wizard bent on taking over the world, but at least you're clever," she said.

"I'm very clever," Abraxas said.

Thoros choked on his leaves.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Muliber barged into Tom's room than stopped in utter horror. Hermione was tied to the bed frame and a nearly naked Tom Riddle was straddling her.

"What the _hell_?" the witch nearly shrieked. "Can't you teach your idiot minions to _knock_?"

"Oh, fuck," Mulciber was saying as he backed away. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck –"

"That was the idea," Tom snarled, "Until you decided to interrupt us."

"Don't hurt me," Mulciber said, hands up as he backed toward the door.

Tom pulled out his wand and froze the intruder in place as Hermione, glaring first at one of them and then the other, wordlessly and wandlessly cast the charm to undo the knots holding her down and pulled her clothes back on.

The mood was wrecked _again_. He was never _ever_ going to get to actually fuck this woman. Tom could feel his hands curve back into the angry claws, a Veela quirk which had the annoying side effect of causing his wand to tumble out of his fingers to the floor.

"Gotta hate not having opposable thumbs, bird man," Hermione said as she bent down and picked it up. She glared at Mulciber. "Were you raised in a _barn_? Jesus."

She flounced to a chair and plopped down in it, pulling one of her Muggle novels off the shelf. "I need strawberries. With chocolate. _Now_." She flipped the book open. "Fuck. Tom. This is the one you ripped pages out of. You told me you'd get me another copy." She threw it down. "You promised me. _Promised_."

Tom muttered, "I need to work on my wandless skills. This not being able to hold a wand whenever I'm pissed off thing is a problem."

"Well, calm the fuck down," Hermione snapped. "And deal with your stupid minion."

"Will obliviation be good enough?" Tom asked, doing a series of breathing exercises he'd found in a book on meditation.

Breathe in happy thoughts (ripping Mulciber's head off he'd seen Hermione naked Hermione was his no one got to look at Hermione), breathe out anger (he'd been cock blocked _again_). Breathe in happy thoughts (ripping Mulciber's head off), breathe out anger (just _fuck)_.

When it worked and his hands returned to their human form he pulled his trousers back on and then took his wand up again. He pointed it at the shaking Mulciber. "Obliviate," he said.

Mulciber blinked. "I think I lost my train of thought. Why aren't you wearing a shirt?"

"You barge in here to tell me something and then forget what it was?" Tom snapped with apparent disgust.

"Well, darling, the sight of your manly chest is enough to distract me," Hermione said.

"Really?"

"It's distracted me from the fact you still haven't replaced my book." She paused. "Actually, it hasn't. Get me my damn book. And strawberries."

"You'll get your fucking fruit," Tom muttered. "Just as soon as bargey-boy here tells me why he's bothering us."

"There's been a… I guess it's an accident," Mulciber stammered.

"So? This is a dangerous school. People are constantly losing bones, falling down multiple flights of moving stairs, being decapitated."

"But…" Mulciber trailed off again.

"Are students really decapitated?" Hermione asked curiously.

"About one every seven years on average," Mulciber said.

"I remain astounded that people send children here," Hermione said. "Giant spiders. Angry centaurs. Decapitating stairs. The place is a death trap."

"Spit out what you came here for, for the love of Salazar," Tom snapped at Mulciber.

"Dumbledore's dead," Mulciber said, looking nervous.

"Professor Dumbledore?" Tom nearly purred. "How tragic." He turned to Hermione. "Happy belated birthday, darling. Do I still have to get you that replacement book?"

"Yes," she said, smiling back at him, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. "You don't get to wiggle out of replacing things of mine you destroy just because…." She glanced at Mulciber. "Just because bad things happen. Lots of bad things happen, especially around you."

"Oh no," Mulciber said. "Tom, you didn't. Please tell me you didn't kill Dumbledore."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Tom said and pointed his wand back at Mulciber. "Obliviate."

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – Well, here it is. Darker, ever darker, until the thrill silences the fear.**_

_**You know I love your comments. Also, I'm on tumblr. Which is weird and confusing but so far so good. colubrina . tumblr . c o m**_


	5. Chapter 5

Tom dumped the white cat on his bed and watched with smug pleasure as Hermione began to make all the kinds of weird noises girls made at cats. She cooed and scratched the beast behind the ears and stroked it.

"What's its name?" she asked without looking up.

"He doesn't have one," Tom said. "I assume you can fix that."

She looked up at him and he laughed at the smirk on her face. "Snowflake," she said before turning back to the cat. "My little Snowflake," she said as the cat began to purr.

Tom threw his body down into a chair and stretched his legs out and watched her with the cat. After a few minutes she asked the obvious question. "Why did you get me a cat?"

He shrugged. "You said you had a cat in the future and what's a witch without a familiar? The fruit gifts are getting old. I like making you happy. Does it matter?"

"I haven't gotten you a gift," Hermione said. "Not one."

"You _are_ the gift," he said casually watching her. "My shiny toy from the future. Any other future-based suggestions I could work on."

She had her face buried in the fur of the cat she was actually nuzzling but she looked up at him and said, "What do you know about the Elder Wand?"

He smiled at that.

He loved her so much.

. . . . . . . . .

"I thought you just _couldn't_ love," Primrose said. "That's what you told _me_."

She was tracing her fingers over Tom's arm and he shuddered. It felt like dead, slimy hands clutching at him. He used his fingers to pinch at her sleeve and move her hand off him.

"Don't touch me," he said.

"You let _her_ touch you," Primrose whined. "I'm a pureblood, Tom."

He looked at her. "You're furniture," he said. "Most people are furniture. Some of them are useful furniture and some of them are attractive furniture and some of them are annoying furniture in my way. Stay attractive and out of my way, Primrose. Don't presume you're a person to me."

"She is, isn't she," Primrose was sniveling at him now and it was annoying. He'd stopped looking at her and was instead watching Hermione as she helped Thoros with his Arithmancy.

Tom shrugged. "She's mine," he said. "That makes her real."

. . . . . . . . .

"What do you know about Grindelwald?" Hermione asked Tom as she straddled him. He licked his lips and eyed her. These questions about politics were never random.

"Bit of a revolutionary?" Tom asked. He leaned back on his hands and smirked up at her. "Hates Muggles, wants to rule the world? I know the drill, sweetheart. Planning on trading me in for the continental model?"

"Never," she said as she rotated her hips. He could feel his mouth open and his eyes close half way as he watched her grind herself into him. "I think one Dark Lord is all I can handle. Just curious how you felt about the competition." She pulled her jumper off and began undoing her blouse. "Do you think he's better than you?" she asked as she cast the blouse away.

"You're goading me," he said and reached a hand up to cup one breast through her brassiere. "This is ugly," he added. "Take it off."

"Make me," she said and he laughed with utter delight before grabbing her and jerking her to her back on the mattress.

Within moments he had her pinned beneath him and leaned down to breathe into her ear. "You shouldn't play with fire, toy of mine. What happens if I break you?"

"You die," she said, "and I'm still dressed."

He yanked off his tie and, watching her eyes, grabbed her wrists and knotted them together above her head. Her breathing hitched a little but her pupils were dilated and, when he leaned down to kiss her, her mouth was frantic against his and he could smell her. Rising up onto his knees he pulled her skirt to her waist and, shoving his fingers past her knickers, he thrust first one, then two, then three into her. He felt a triumphant surge at how wet she was, how ready for him. He pulled his hand away from her and settled back down to look at her. He traced her lips with his hand, wet with her own fluids, then shoved the fingers into her mouth.

"This is what you taste like," he said as she sucked at his fingers, running her tongue around them and scraping her teeth along his skin. When she bit down hard he yelped and yanked his hand away from her.

"Bitch," he said.

"Still dressed," she said and he snarled and reached behind her to unhook the truly ugly brassiere. He went to pull it off her, sliding the straps along the arms she obligingly held in front of her. He realized why she was smirking quite so broadly when his tie, still binding her wrists, kept him from getting rid of her clothing. "Having a bit of a logistical problem, Tom?" she asked and he hissed at her and tugged for a moment on the bra in frustration before he just sliced the straps with a nonverbal hex.

"Impressive," she said, raising her hands back up above her head and he glared at her for a moment before he realized she wasn't mocking him at all.

"You did tell me to undress you," he said, running a thumb and forefinger around a nipple before he lowered his head and flicked his tongue across it until she gasped.

"Tom," she said, her voice catching. He raised his head to look at her. "Do you think he's better than you?" she asked again and he could feel his eyes widen in shocked rage.

"No," he said, biting her hard on the neck, then the shoulder. She flinched at each contact but other than sharp intakes of breath didn't make a sound. "No one is better than I am." He grazed his teeth along her skin until he had her nipple caught lightly between them. He released it long enough to say, "Care to ask me again?" before capturing the sensitive flesh again.

She whimpered and he released her to nuzzle against her, feeling her relief but also the spiraling loop of his anger feeding his arousal and his arousal feeding hers.

"I wonder how much you'd let me hurt you before you stopped me?" he murmured, mouth against her skin.

"Tom," she said, her voice a plea and he laughed. He slid down her body and pushed her legs apart so he sat between them, her skirt up at her waist and her knickers soaked through. He pushed them to the side and held two fingers lightly against her.

"Get yourself off," he said and, when she didn't move, he flicked her lightly and then, after her gasp died away, held his hand still again. "You do the work," he said. "I want to watch you."

Tentatively she moved her hips so she pressed against his hand.

"More," he ordered.

She flushed but began to writhe against his hand, her face burning scarlet but her body responding to him as she could never respond to anyone else. When she was beginning to shudder he pulled his hand away and her near sob aroused him as even the earlier fury hadn't. "You are the most perfect woman in the world," he said, holding his hand just out of reach of the body she desperately pushed in his direction. "But I still want to hear you beg me."

She caught her breath and he reveled in the combination of desperation and arousal he had her in until she shook her head and said, "I won't beg Lord Voldemort for anything."

He could feel her gather her thoughts and knew she was going to reach for the cute and the pink and the fluffy and he choked out, "Don't beg him, beg _me_. Beg _Tom_."

"They're the _same_," she snarled.

"Not the same," he snapped. "_I'm_ Tom. _I'm_ the one who brings you fruit and makes you happy. Beg _me_. _One_ word."

She closed her eyes and he heard her say, "Tom. _Please_."

He nearly attacked her, his fingers flicking back and forth across her as she gasped and writhed and finally called out again, "_Please_."

And he did.

. . . . . . . . . .

"So," he said a bit later. "Grindelwald."

"In my timeline Dumbledore defeats him," she said. "It what gets him dubbed one of the greatest light wizards of the age."

Tom leaned back on their bed and gave her a 'you're an idiot' look. "I'm not a light wizard, love," he said. "You may have missed this, but I have these plans to conquer the world and grind the masses to dust beneath my feet."

Hermione rolled her eyes and traced her fingers around his lips. "You, _love_," she said, "are whatever the press says you are. Defeat Grindelwald and they'll all fall at those feet of yours and offer you whatever your dark heart desires. You want the Ministry? They'll _give_ it to you and thank you for being so gracious as to take it." She paused. "Of course, maybe you can't defeat the man."

He looked at her from under his lashes.

She laughed at the smoldering look. "Plus, you want his wand."

"That I do," Tom agreed. "I have a thing about death."

. . . . . . . . . . .

Abraxas' ongoing attempts to convince Hermione that they should do a musical theater revue and that she should sing Polly Peachum's 'Should Love be Controlled by Advice' was the only conflict any of them experienced for many months.

"The Beggar's Opera?" she'd say with disdain. "Not even The Threepenny Opera? I should hex you just for your execrable taste."

"I have excellent taste," Abraxas would say with a sniff. "You just don't appreciate the form."

Finally Hermione cornered him and reminded him that, what with her coming from the future and all, she knew a number of songs from years to come. "Spoilers, Abraxas. I can ruin every major popular show for you for decades, and I will if you don't stop trying to get me to sing this _shite_."

"You and Tom deserve each other," the man had said, stalking off in a sulk.

Unfortunately, this peace was ruined when Tom Riddle overheard two Gryffindors talking about Hermione. Headmaster Dippet had either turned a blind eye to the way Hermione spent every night in Tom's room or simply hadn't noticed; it could be difficult to suss out whether the adults at Hogwarts were truly incompetent or simply didn't care what the students did. The other students, however, had noticed and had drawn the logical conclusion that Tom and Hermione were not chaste.

That he still hadn't managed to technically fuck the damn witch probably contributed to his fury when he overheard their speculations. They centered around what assorted filthy sex acts a woman so lost to decency as to not even bother hiding she slept in her boyfriend's room was probably willing to do. The boys were most interested in whether she could be convinced to do such with them.

He knew, of course, she'd probably vivisect anyone who laid a hand on her. That did not lessen his raging desire to chop the two boys into small pieces and make them eat the bits.

He wondered how long you could keep someone alive if they ate only their own flesh.

Still, his possessive rage mostly drowned out that cool speculation and he could feel his hands curl into the familiar Veela claws.

Unfortunately, he could also feel – fuck – wings trying to sprout from his back.

Just… shite. Could this Veela absurdity get any worse? Wings. _Wings_.

He desperately tried to think of calm thoughts to keep the wings from bursting forth. It was like being fourteen and getting an erection in class and thinking of Quidditch scores to try to make it go away before anyone else noticed.

He made it back to his room before he released the mental control that had kept them in check and the damn wings sprouted from his back and he hunched over the bed and gasped in pain. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that a rapid transfiguration that grew wings was uncomfortable but it was one insult too many and he burned with the need to kill something, kill _anything_. His rage ignited the candles arrayed on his desk but it wasn't enough of a release; he needed to _hurt_ someone.

"You can't."

He spun and snarled at Hermione who'd come in the room. She eyed his wings with what looked more like appreciation than anything else but she said again, "You can't."

"Why?" he demanded, opening and closing his bird claws in agitation.

"Kill someone and the game is up," she said. "Want to go to Azkaban? Then, fine. Walk out of here and start slaughtering the masses."

"I have _wings_," he said in despair. "They wanted to _fuck _you."

One of the positives of their increased sensitivity to one another since the Marking was that he didn't need to explain himself. "Well, they won't get a chance," she said as she crossed the room and stood before him, licking her lips. "And it's a tad hard to miss the wings."

"They're disgusting," he spit out.

Hermione, though, ran her hand over the edge of the feathers. He shuddered. "They're beautiful," she said, her voice so quiet he could barely hear her. "Like sin and shadow and rage given form. I've never seen anything as beautiful as…" she trailed off. "These are for me," she said abruptly after that. "Only for me."

"I'm not human," he said. "This is too much. _Wings_ are too much, Hermione."

She walked around him and began to trace the lines of the sinews and bone holding the feathers with a finger. "Oh, Tom," she said again. "They're so beautiful."

He shuddered as she ran both hands along the feathers. "I'm not human," he said again but he could feel all his nerves sparking as she stroked him. It felt like having her trace her fingers lightly over his cock and he was going to die. He had wings and they were _erotic_ and _oh fuck_ he wanted her.

"Not human," she agreed, her fingers still tormenting him as she pet and pet and pet him. She ran her hand from where the wings erupted from his back up and then as far down as she could reach. "More. Better."

"Better?" Tom whispered the word.

"Oh, yes," she said, her voice raw. "My mate. Better. More. Mine."

"They wanted to fuck you," he said, the rage spiraling back up now that she'd started to soothe him about the damned wings. "They thought they _could_."

"They can't," she said, and she tugged him back towards the bed. "Worthless fools. You could."

Tom looked at her. Pupils dilated, her pulse pounding in her throat. She licked her lips and slowly unbuttoned her blouse and tugged off her bra, baring herself to him. "Now?" he asked.

"Now," she said, and she sat and pushed herself up the bed until she was sprawled before him. She pulled off her knickers and spread herself with her own fingers, blatantly inviting him.

Merlin, he didn't think he'd ever been this hard and, given her penchant for going on her knees in closets, that was saying something.

Tom fumbled with his trousers and pants and pushed them down with one clawed hand even as he tried to get off the shredded remnants of his shirt with the other. He finally got most of the shirt off and tossed it at his desk and kicked off the fabric tangled around his ankles away. He was on his knees above her, wings spread behind him, when she looked over his shoulder and shrieked.

He hadn't even touched her yet. He squinted down at her, the fog of lust and rage clearing because she was fumbling for her wand and swearing. When he turned to see what the matter was he began swearing too.

His tattered shirt was lying across a candle on the desk and most definitely on fire and his essay for advanced Potions was igniting too.

He'd worked really hard on that essay.

He wondered briefly if he could manage to fuck her before the fire got out of control.

As Hermione got her hand on her wand and managed to extinguish the flames he realized the mood was definitely ruined, his wings had shriveled and disappeared, and he'd just been cock blocked again.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – I'm sorry this chapter is going up before I responded to reviews of the last one. In my defense, I spent two days this week obsessively writing a 7500 Tomione short story called 'When She Drowned'. It's not funny. At all. **_


	6. Chapter 6

"'The hills are alive,'" Hermione sang as she spun around the room, "'with the sound of music, la la la la.'"

"What year is that monstrosity from?" Tom asked. He was studying from the copy of _Every Boy's Guide to Violent Curses_ that Hermione had stolen from the library and making assiduous notes. "Look at this one. You can actually turn someone's lungs inside out and it's wordless."

"Wordless would be good," Abraxas muttered, twitching with the obvious urge to out his hands over his ears. "Silence is a beautiful thing."

"I don't know," Hermione said. "Sometime in the fifties I think. 'With songs they have sung, for a thousand yeeeeaarsss."

Abraxas glared at her. "You're a right bitch, you know that?"

"You took my peaches," she said with a shrug.

"No one takes her fruit," Tom said, not looking up. "You should know that by now."

"You're also nearly tone deaf," Abraxas said and Mulciber muttered something that sounded like agreement.

"'snot my fault Hogwarts doesn't have an adequate arts program," Hermione said. "I'm sure you agree that the arts should be an important part of every student's education. Think how much more dulcet my tones would be if I'd just had voice lessons instead of classes on interpreting the movements of the stars."

"I'll be in my room," Abraxas said. "My _soundproofed_ room."

. . . . . . . . . .

"Where's Snowflake?" Hermione asked, stalking through the Slytherin common room in a fury.

"Last I checked he was kissing Slughorn's substantial arse," Thoros said.

"It's Tuesday," Mulciber agreed. "That means it's that queer potions club of theirs."

"Not _Tom_," Hermione said with evident annoyance. "_Snowflake._ My _cat_. He's been missing for three days."

Mulciber blinked at her a few times. "That big white thing? With the nasty attitude?"

"There's nothing wrong with Snowflake's attitude," she sniffed.

"He hates everyone," Thoros pointed out. "He tried to kill a house elf. He shat on Slughorn's desk. I mean, he hates McGonagall and she basically _is_ a cat."

"He loves me," Hermione said, getting down on her knees to look under the couches.

Mulciber stared at her arse for a moment before saying, "In shocking news, male creatures that hate everyone have been known to love you." He muttered something that might have been 'damned if I know why' under his breath.

"You will be damned if Tom hears you say that," Thoros said quietly. "Or if he catches you staring at her like that."

Mulciber found something enthralling to look at in his textbook.

. . . . . . . . . .

Tom wiped his face off and looked up from between Hermione's legs. "Happy?" he asked.

"As if you didn't know," she said with a snort, tugging him up so she could kiss him.

"This Veela bullshite isn't all bad," he admitted.

. . . . . . . . . .

Tom was about to give him minions some instructions when he made a noise that sounded rather suspiciously like a loud squawk.

Thoros looked at him. "Did you just squawk?" he asked in disbelief.

"Merlin," Mulciber muttered, letting his head sink down onto his arms on the table. "Now he's making bird sounds. This whole world domination thing is doomed."

"I did not squawk," Tom snapped.

"You squawked," Abraxas said. "Have you ever considered letting Hermione be sort of the public face of our Legion of Doom? I know she's a Mud... Muggle-born but she doesn't ever turn into a bird by mistake."

"And she's just as evil as you are," Mulciber said encouragingly as he lifted his head. "Did you see the Muggle clown calendar she gave me? Evil, I tell you."

"She's quite well-spoken," Abraxas added.

"I did not squawk," Tom muttered.

All three of his minions just looked at him.

. . . . . . . . . .

Tom and Hermione were walking along one of the paths at Hogwarts when he stepped on a rake and it popped up and hit him in the face.

"What the actual fuck?" he exclaimed while Hermione tried not to laugh. "Who just leaves a rake sitting out like that?"

"Did you just make a pun about leaves and a rake?" she asked, still suppressing her snickering.

"I hate you," he muttered.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione slid the Big Book of World Domination back across the bed toward Tom. "So, this is looking better," she said. "You seem to have edited out the worst excesses. I'm still not sure I see a real coherent plan, though. I mean, let's think about goals. Have you defined your five-year plan? How do you intend to shift the paradigm and leverage the various synergies available to you? I mean, what are the core competencies of each of your minions?"

"Abraxas can sing," Tom muttered.

"I was thinking more along the lines of skill with unforgivable curses, talents for strategy, things like that. You can't build an evil empire with the chorus line, Tom." She turned back to the book and tapped her finger on one of his bullet points. "And, honesty, I'm note sure you'll get a lot of public buy in to 'let me be your evil overlord: at least I'm openly rotten, unlike the corrupt fools currently in office.' For one thing, it's not catchy. For another thing, it's too honest. Marketing is never about honesty." She leaned back. "Actually, Abraxas could come in handy here. Do you think he could come up with a jingle?"

"A what?"

"A jingle. You know, some kind of catchy phrase set to music that people can't get out of their heads. 'Plop plop, fizz fizz, oh what a relief it is'," she added, singing along to some awful tune.

Tom stared at her in horror. "Plop plop? What the hell is that?"

"Gas relief, I think, for some Yank product. That's not the point. The point is, it's short. 'I'm stuck on band-aid brand 'cause bandaid's stuck on me.'"

"Gas relief? Bandaids? Synergies? What are you on about?"

"A jingle, Tom. A short marketing phrase set to music. Something that makes your evil seem appealing and desirable. 'Let me be your evil overlord, I'll only kill some of you' is just not going to work."

"But it's true," he protested.

She sighed and set the book down. "Tom, please tell me you aren't really this stupid."

. . . . . . . . .

Abraxas frowned at her. "A short marketing phrase set to music?" he asked.

"Something catchy," she agreed.

"'Riddle for Overlord: He's No Joke'?" Mulciber suggested.

Abraxas made a disgusted face and then tapped his quill against a sheet of parchment. "It's not a bad idea," he admitted. "I mean, it's not like we're going to have free elections or anything. We're just going to slaughter the current power structure and put our own people in place, but the masses are easily manipulated by words." He nodded several times. "It's a good idea she-snowflake. I'll figure it out."

"How about, 'Riddle's Not a Clown'," Mulciber said.

Hermione and Abraxas both looked at him. "I'll figure it out," Abraxas repeated.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Let's have sex," Tom said. He'd been staring out the open window for at least an hour. There was nothing to do and he was so bored.

Hermione looked up from her book and made a rude noise. "Why bother?" she asked. "Every time we try to have sex something happens. Mulciber bursts in on us. The desk catches on fire. I mean, what next? A Dementor attack? A mad escapee from Azkaban who wants to slaughter someone's pet? I think I'd rather just read. Seems safer."

Tom sighed and, picking up one of her feet, began to rub her sole with his thumbs. She nearly purred and, encouraged, he said, "We've just had a spurt of bad luck. What could possibly happen this time? We're in our lovely Head dorm, the Head Girl is home for the weekend doing some family thing, and I've made it very clear that the minions have to knock. What could possible interrupt us?"

"I don't know," Hermione said, her book tipping in her hand as she made a moaning noise at what he was doing to her foot. "I'm just not in the mood, Tom."

"Uh huh," he said, as he palpitated her foot a bit more. "I'll go down on you first."

She frowned but put her book aside. "When you put it like that how can I resist your romantic importuning?"

Tom smirked. "Whatever works," he said.

She rolled her eyes but pulled her skirt up and tugged her knickers off. She tossed them across the room and Tom snagged them out of the air. "Should I start keeping these as trophies or something?"

"My laundry?" she asked with a snort. "Only if you plan on funding an infinite supply of the things."

"I'm a poor orphan, remember?" Tom took his fingers and spread her before him. "I can't afford to keep you in endless lace and satin."

"Then don't be stealing my knickers as mementos," she said with a grin that turned to a yelp as he ran his tongue over her. The yelp turned into a series of gasps as she grabbed the coverlet of the bed in each hand and held it tightly. Tom licked and sucked and probed at her, stopping to laugh as she whimpered.

"Not in the mood, huh?" he asked.

"Fuck you, Tom," she muttered.

"Merlin, I hope so," he said as he burrowed his face back between her legs and flicked his tongue back and forth across her in a steadily increasing rate until her whimpers became louder and she tensed and gasped and was done and he stopped and rested his head against her, almost panting himself. After a moment he drew himself up and wiped his face against hers.

She stuck her tongue out at him. "You're so fucking crude, Tom," she said.

"It's from your body," he laughed as he rubbed his nose against hers, "and you certainly liked what I did to get all sticky."

"True," she said. She tugged his shirt off and ran a hand over the chest that hovered above her.

"You like?" he asked.

"It's just pheromones," she said but she was grinning up at him and he grinned back. When they were good they were so good. It was hard, sometimes, to believe he hadn't always had this mate as a part of him, as an extension of everything he was and would be.

"You ever wonder why we got stuck together?" he asked. "Is it a genetic compatibility thing or a personality one?"

"Oh, fuck, I hope it's genetics," Hermione said. "I'd hate to think I'm actually a good fit for a sociopath bent on world domination." But she wrapped her arms around him anyway and pulled him down so she could feel his weight on her, digging her nails into his back.

"Watch what you do with those things," he complained, only half in jest, as he reached down to struggle with his trousers. He really should have gotten them off _before_ but he didn't and now he had to pull himself up to get them unbuttoned and shoved away. Trousers off, pants off, he settled himself above this mate of his and got ready to finally – _finally_ – consummate their weird little union.

That was when Snowflake, back from his multi-day cat adventure, jumped in through the window and launched himself at Tom's back, a location onto which he held with claws extended just long enough to deposit the present which he had brought back before returning to the window and disappearing again.

Tom howled in pain as the cat took off and, when he sat up, the dying, screeching, bleeding bird the cat had given him fell from his back and onto the sheets.

Hermione looked at Tom and then at the bird. It struggled to move an obviously broken wing.

"Well," she said, "that certainly killed the mood."

. . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – I think I might be tapped out for ideas for this one so don't expect anything resembling a timely update. **_

_**Thanks to Grovek26 for the rake idea. Make an absurd suggestion in the reviews, even in jest, and, well, you see what happens. Because this is a very VERY serious story.**_

_**In that vein, if you have any good jingle ideas, let me know. Or bad jingle ideas. I topped out at "Riddle's no Joke".**_

_**To respond to one guest review since I can't do it via PM: "**__But this fanfic crap about "He could smell her arousal" has got to stop. You can't, you know. Not unless you've got your nose right down there in it. And then it all depends on hygiene. So cease and desist._" _**1) This is a story that includes time travel, hands changing to claws, wings sprouting from a character's back, telepathy, **__**and**__** enhanced senses. So, no, I'm not going to cease and desist because realism isn't really a thing here AND 2) of all the weird Veela traits a sense of smell better than that of a human is THE ONLY ONE that actually happens in the animal world. So, yeah, Tom CAN smell her because he's NOT HUMAN. Not realism. Let realism go. Run free, realism, run free.**_

_**Thank you for your lovely reviews. I so appreciate them :)**_


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione wrinkled her nose as she watched Tom practice the contraceptive spells over and over again. He was muttering to himself and consulting the handout from the infirmary and had been driving her insane with this nonsense all afternoon. On what must have been the 394th iteration of the spell she finally said, "Could you stop it? Why are you being so obsessive about this anyway?"

Tom turned to look at her and, pouting, said, "I don't want to get pregnant, Hermione. A man needs to take responsibility for his own birth control."

She blinked a few times. "_You_ don't want to get pregnant?" she said at last. "Do you understand how human reproduction works?"

"I'm not human, I'm a Veela," he muttered sullenly. "Things are different."

"Still," she said.

"Did you even read _Our Bodies, Our Veelas_?" he demanded.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. She had not, she had to admit, opened the Veela sexuality book Tom kept leaving out. The cover was pink and the title was written in an annoyingly flowery script and there was a drawing of an absurdly wholesome – and weirdly desexualized – Veela on the cover who smiled out in a way that bared a few too many teeth. His wings looked more like something you'd find on a child's colorful drawing of a Pegasus and a bit less like the black temptations to sin that Tom periodically grew.

"Oh, you – " Tom huffed. "Would you read it?"

With a sigh Hermione pulled the book off the desk and opened it to the chapter listing.

_Your Identity as a Veela_

_Relating to your Mate_

_Veela Sexuality_

_Sexual Health and Reproductive Choices_

_Male Veela Pregnancy_

She stopped reading. Male the what now? She looked up at Tom.

"See," he said.

"Weird," she said. "You keep practicing that charm because no."

"Exactly," he said.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione pulled the paper off the book she'd ordered with such glee that Tom glanced up from his Big Book of World Domination. "What's that?" he asked, reaching his arms overhead to stretch for a moment. Setting up a detailed project plan to take over the Ministry could give a man a sore neck. "Don't suppose I could get you to rub my shoulders," he said.

Hermione snorted and waved her new book at him. "BDSM for Dummies," he read. "What's that?"

"Just an idea I had," she said.

"Tell me," he said.

"Don't tell me what to do," she snapped. "I need to read this and make an outline and take notes in three different colors as well as add post-it notes to particularly interesting pages."

"Post-it notes?"

"Merlin, sometimes coming back into the past is like I left all of civilization behind. Yes, Tom, Post-it notes. Don't bother your pretty little head about it."

He made a harrumphing noise.

"And where are my strawberries," she said. "How can I make a project plan of my own about the kinky sex we'll be having without fruit to hand?"

Tom let his head fall to the desk with a thump.

. . . . . . . . . .

"So," Tom said, frowning at Hermione, "Grindelwald."

"Yes?" she said, sucking on a chocolate covered strawberry.

He tried not to be distracted by her mouth and tongue around the ripe fruit. "I should kill him."

"Only if you want the Elder Wand," she said, dropping the stem into the bin and taking another berry from the basket Tom had offered her.

He leaned back and watched her, ripping a piece of paper into smaller and smaller bits. "I rather do," he said, tearing and tearing and tearing.

She licked the chocolate off her fingers and dropped another strawberry stem into the trash. "Any timeline on that?"

"I was thinking next weekend," he said. "Pop over via illegal portkey, kill him in his sleep, come back."

"Simple, but I like it," she said, taking another strawberry. "Try not to die. I've gotten used to you and I'd miss this fruit."

Tom ripped the paper in his hands a little more viciously.

"Why are you doing that, anyway?" she asked.

"I don't know," he admitted. "It's just soothing. And don't worry, I can't die. Horcruxes, remember?"

"Oh, yeah," she said. "You're an evil Dark wizard. It's easy to forget."

"Bitch," he muttered.

She shrugged. "Bring me Grindelwald's head on a platter and maybe I'll start taking you seriously."

"You really want his head?" Tom made a face.

"It's just an expression," she said with a sigh. "The wand'll be plenty of proof you offed the man."

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione walked into Tom's room and stopped short. He was glowering and posturing at himself in the mirror.

She popped a raspberry in her mouth and watched him expand his wings and then make a weird hissing noise at himself when his reflection did the same thing. Finally she said, snickering, "Having fun, Bird Boy?"

He spun around and turned bright red.

"Sometimes the instincts are really strong," he muttered.

"Uh huh," she said. "Put those wings away and go get me more fruit just in case you die this weekend on your Grindelwald adventure. I'm almost out."

. . . . . . . . . .

It was meeting time again. Tom, Abraxas, and Thoros sat around the table in the Slytherin common room, having driven the rest of the students away with a few well placed snarls, and they were working on the plan to go and get the Philosopher's Stone. Planning was going reasonably well; no one ever expects three schoolboys to show up and rain down death and destruction so they were fairly sure they would have surprise on their side. Thoros had convinced the kitchen elves to send up a snack tray and they'd all been helping themselves to the little starters as they refined their plan.

At one point, however, Tom realized Abraxas was staring at him.

"What?" he asked.

Abraxas looked at the small pile of bacon wrapped asparagus on the floor. "Am I to assume you don't care for those?" he asked.

"Huh?" Tom said.

"You've been pushing them off the plate and to the floor." Abraxas frowned. "Is this one of your bird things? Or is it a raised in an orphanage thing? Because most of us just don't take the things we don't like."

"Oh, sod off," Tom muttered.

. . . . . . . . . .

"So," Tom leaned back against the headboard and put on what he hoped was a seductive smile. He'd stripped off his neat uniform shirt and knew the way the undershirt clung to him torso was a sight most women, including his mate, found physically appealing. "Before I head off to go kill the rival Dark Lord on the continent, setting myself up to be the uncontested source for all magical evil, I don't suppose we could have sex for luck."

"Luck?" Hermione put down her bowl of cherries and made a face. "I'm not sure 'luck' is a word I'd apply to our sex life. Don't you think it would be safer for me to just blow you or something? That never seems to go wrong."

"I don't want to sound ungrateful," Tom said, "because your skill with your mouth is really impressive, but I'm getting a tad frustrated we haven't managed to have vaginal intercourse yet. I mean, we've tried –"

"Sporadically."

" – for months and it's just one interruption after another." He smiled as sweetly as he could. "I'm sure this will be the time it will all work out."

"You're sure of that, huh?" Hermione said, spitting out a pit and dropping it into her bowl.

"We'll make sure the window's shut to keep your cat out," Tom said. "No fire. We'll ward the room so no one can get in. I'll do the contraceptive charm multiple times just to be sure. What could –"

"Don't say it!" Hermione yelped.

Tom stopped talking and considered the bad luck that had dogged them and admitted to himself that saying, "What could possibly go wrong" might be just asking for something else really weird to happen.

"Just… do the charm, bird boy," Hermione said, "And I'll do mine. _No babies_."

It was, Tom thought, almost funny how awkward it was to kiss her when he could feel her emotions. The way they were both braced against any catastrophe, however, made, the entire encounter unusually tense. She wasn't thinking about fluffy bunnies or unicorns, which was a relief, but she wasn't thinking about violence either. The main tenor of her thoughts was nervous anticipation of disaster and that was about as sexy as a final exam.

Maybe less.

Tom pulled away from her and frowned. "This isn't working," he muttered.

"I know," Hermione slouched against the headboard. "And the sex thing had the potential to be the only really good thing about this whole Veela disaster."

"Fruit," he reminded her, bringing a slightly wry smile to her face.

"Oh yes," she said. "Traveling back in time, being separated from everyone I ever cared about, and being magically bound to a budding Dark Lord really is totally offset by fruit."

"And you get to rule the world?" he added in a hopeful tone of voice. The waves of depression roiling off of her made any hope of sex wilt. He sighed and pulled her into his arms. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't pull you back here, if it's any consolation, and I wasn't thrilled either."

She sighed and leaned her head against his chest. "I do like you," she admitted. "Love you, even. I shouldn't, of course. You're evil and a tad absurd but I don't think I can help it."

"Magical bonds," he said.

"Yeah," she said. "And the wings are pretty beautiful."

He tightened his grip on her. A sad mate was just about the worst thing in the world. "I'd do anything to cheer you up," he whispered into her hair. "Have Abraxas sing? Fetch you fruit? Kill people who annoy you? Name it and it's yours."

That, at least, made her giggle. "You have the funniest ideas of good pick-me-ups," she said. "I mean, I'd pay money to avoid Abraxas' singing."

He nuzzled her at that. "Maybe we forget about sex and all the disasters that come with it?" he suggested. "Just… kissing?"

"I could do that," she said, turning her face up to his.

Tom settled to the task of exploring his mate's lips. Soft and tasting of cherries and chocolate and, he thought, maybe a bit of coffee. He worked his way around her mouth with a gentleness that was unusual for the pair of them and, when she began to relax against him he turned his attention to her neck, licking and nibbling as they both slid down until they were snuggled together, his mouth at her neck, her fingers twisting his shirt around and around. "I do love you," he said softly. "Probably just because you're mine –"

"You are so bad at sweet nothings," she said but, he thought, she sounded – and felt – more amused than upset.

"But you are mine and always will be so I'm not sure that matters," he continued. He tugged at her shirt. "May I?"

She nodded and he began unbuttoning the blouse, kissing her skin as each additional inch was revealed. She arched her back up so he could unfasten her bra and then shrugged out of both the shirt and undergarment. He lay his cheek down against her stomach and just reveled in the feel of her for a moment.

"You too," she said, her fingers at the hem of his t-shirt. He could feel himself almost coo at that and he pushed himself up so she could pull his shirt over his head. She tossed it to the side and ran a hand over him. "You really are so beautiful," she said. "Just… sculpted."

He pressed his mouth to the under curve of one breast and murmured, "You're pretty beautiful yourself, love. I can't believe the perfection of you." He took one nipple into his mouth and began to lightly suck on it as she gasped and pressed herself against him. The depression she'd felt earlier had fled in the face of his distraction and he felt a certain male smugness she picked up.

"You think so highly of yourself," she muttered.

He slid one hand down along her stomach, his mouth still on her nipple, his tongue flicking back and forth across the sensitive flesh, and responded just by letting his fingers creep below her waistband and into her knickers. The way she squirmed against his questing hand suggested she thought well of him also. His smugness increased.

"Brat," she muttered.

He picked his head up. "I could stop?" he suggested.

"Don't you dare," she said. He laughed as she began flicking mental images of herself knifing him.

"Tease," he whispered, turning his attention to her other nipple even as his fingers continued to slide back and forth across her.

She rewarded him with an avalanche of increasingly violent images and he could feel himself begin to ache with the need to, for the love of all the founders, actually be inside her. Just once. Nothing had happened. The door was locked. It would be fine, right?

He looked up at her and she bit her lip and nodded and he frantically undid his trousers and kicked them aside while she wriggled out of the rest of her clothes. She slid beneath the covers of his bed – their bed – and he pulled himself under them as well. She licked her lips and looked at him and he began to kiss lower and lower down her body, licking at her torso, then the line where her hip curved inwards, and finally he'd inched his way down to lap at her.

She purred and keened and gasped and, when he considered it a good job, he began to drag himself back up the bed.

She suddenly shrieked and began to flail and scream and he pulled away from her to find out what was wrong when her kicking foot connected with his testicles eliciting a sensation he would describe as one that "ruined the mood."

He doubled over in horrified pain as she continued to scream and yanked the blanket off the bead. "Something slimy," she shrieked. "In the bed. Wet and cold and – "

A large frog looked up at her. Tom lolled over onto his side, clutching at himself as her screams died off.

"Why is there a frog in our bed?" she demanded.

He was not in any condition to answer her though, he admitted, that was an excellent question. He blamed Snowflake.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – More of this very serious love story for your consideration.**_


	8. Chapter 8

"What are you doing?" Tom asked. Hermione had a sheet of parchment out and multiple catalogs spread on the bed that she was consulting.

"I'm ordering graduation gifts for your minions," she said. "You have to observe workplace niceties, Tom, even in an evil empire." She took a bite out of her peach and wiped the juice from her chin as he leaned over her shoulder. A clown blow up doll for Mulciber. A rabbit farm for Thoros. A piano and collection of West End songbooks for Abraxas.

"I don't mean to be crass," Tom said, "but how can you afford all this? I mean, aren't you the little lost girl from the future?"

She shrugged. "I got tired of being poor so I imperiused Cygnus Black to sign over half his holdings." She regarded the peach in her hand. "Fruit like this doesn't grow on trees you know."

"Actually it does."

"It's just an expression, Tom," she said. "Try to stay focused on the important part. Now we're filthy rich."

"Isn't the Imperius Curse one of the unforgivables?" he asked, trying not to sound too smug.

"If you have a point I'd like you to get to it," Hermione said, signing her name to the order form with a flourish and folding the paper up.

"No point," Tom said.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione pulled open the bottom drawer of Tom' desk looking for a spare quill and pulled out a stuffed pink unicorn with a sparkly silver horn and a tuft of purple something that was clearly supposed to be a mane. "Tom," she said, drawing the word out as she held the object in question up. "Why do you have a pink, fluffy unicorn toy?"

He snatched it from her. "Don't judge, Hermione." He cradled the toy in his arms. "It can be very stressful planning a course of world domination and after your constant barrage of fluffy animal and unicorn imagery I grew to like them and now, sometimes, I like to cuddle with a fluffy stuffed toy." He set it down with exaggerated care. "I don't get on you about your fruit thing though, frankly, it can be a bit much."

"Unicorns, Tom?" she asked.

"I feel like they give me life," he muttered. "Merlin, you're so judgmental all of the sudden. Sometimes I don't even know you anymore."

Hermione sniggered. "I'll be in the shower, unicorn boy. See if you can find me a fresh quill while I'm washing away the image of you snuggling a stuffed toy."

"I really hate you," he muttered.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione was running her hand along Tom's feathers while lay facedown on the bed, his wings draped out so they hung over the edges of the mattress and brushed against the floor. He made a near purring sound at her touch. "You know," she said, "I don't think birds purr."

He opened his eyes and gave her a disgruntled look. She smirked at him and he huffed out a growl of displeasure that she might have taken more seriously if he hadn't just closed his eyes again and rubbed his cheek against the pillow while she stroked him. Her feather stroking, a feeling that he still found agonizing, wonderfully erotic, was cut short, however, when she suddenly said, "What's this?" and leaned closer to him to stare at something. She cast a magnification spell and looked even more carefully then pulled back and summoned _Our Veelas, Our Selves_ from the desk. Flipping through the index she ran her finger down the topics, then turned to page 394. "Ugh," she said.

"What?" Tom asked without moving.

"You have feather mites," she said in obvious disgust. "You have _parasites_."

Tom's wings shriveled back into him at the tone in her voice.

She pulled out a sheet of parchment and began writing. "What are you doing?" he asked nervously.

"You can't just leave mites untreated," she said. "You'll get anemic. You could _die_."

"I can't die," he objected. "Horcruxes, remember?"

"Then you'll be weak, restless, and anemic," she said. "Forever. That sounds fun."

"And your response to this is to write a letter?" he asked in confusion. "Sometimes, Hermione, I don't understand you."

She snorted. "I'm ordering a potion people use for pet birds that get mites that your little Veela book recommends. We'll have to spray your feathers and get new linens and… this is really very disgusting, Tom. I mean, I'd become accustomed to the idea of being permanently, magically bonded to an evil bird man, especially now that you've agreed to make not turning into a noseless freak a priority, but parasites are beyond the pale." She began to scratch at her head. "Oh, Merlin, what if they're contagious?! Just the thought makes my head itch."

. . . . . . . . . .

"A present," Tom said, tossing a wand on the bed.

Hermione picked up the stick and rolled it between her hands. "You're giving me the Elder Wand?" she asked.

"No," he said. "Obviously not. I'm an evil Dark Lord, not Santa Claus, and I didn't just sneak into Grindelwald's very poorly decorated bedroom and murder him in his sleep so I could give the spoils of that dastardly deed to you. I just needed to set it down while I got this out." He pulled a corked flask out of a pocket and passed that over, snatching the wand back.

Hermione turned the flask back and forth as she searched for a label. Finally she just asked, "What the blazes is this, Tom?"

"Elixir of Life," he said with smug pride. "On the way to dispose of Grindelwald I stopped off at Flamel's." He tilted his head to the side like an inquisitive parrot as he added, "For a 600-year-old wizard he was still pretty spry."

"My," she said, "You have been a busy boy."

He preened.

She uncorked the potion and said, "I suppose I should drink up?"

Tom shrugged. "It seems to maintain you at the age you are when you start drinking it. Personally I'd prefer to keep you as the hot girl you are right now but if you'd rather wait until you're 35 and starting to get a few grey hairs and sag a bit – "

She drank the bottle and glared at him.

"I'm just saying," he said, "I'd adore you at any age, my dear."

"You're such an arsehole, Tom," she said.

"I know," he said, "but can we have sex now anyway?"

"Yes," she said.

It was, at last, incident free.

**~ finis ~ **


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